


A little something extra

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, First Time, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, Romance, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there's a rescue at sea, and then there's a rescue at sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a lot which *could* be said at this juncture. We're going to stick with 'aagghh'.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Green_animation (green_animation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_animation/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Thoroughly AU-ized mentions of things you probably already know. Nothing earth-shattering. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: This isn't, actually, a crossover with Flight Rising -- but it does take some ideas and concepts from the game and run wild with them. The idea came from looking at the Maren Warrior familiar one too many times and being helpless not to see d'Artagnan. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: I've been in a pretty bad place, depression-wise, just lately, but my lovers and friends have been right there for me. I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, and all the support you've given me, and all the love you've wrapped me up with. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Pixie, Melly, Spice, Greyandgold, green_animation, Sergei, Nonie, and my Jack -- you keep me in one piece, always. 
> 
> green_animation also made *art*. Check it out while you're reading!

Porthos doesn't know anything about ships or sailing or storms at sea, but — 

But. 

It was obvious to all of them that *their* ship was going down — *with* the bloody royals — by the time the sky turned black. 

Now, a lot could have been said at that point. 

Things about how the Captain — not their Captain, who is cursing a blue streak under his breath, but Captain La Vergne, who is grimly and silently steering this creaking tub as best as he can — 

Well, he had said not to put out to sea, yet. 

He had said the weather looked wrong for it. 

He had said men — all sorts of men, high and low — died in weather like it. 

You could say things like that. 

You could also say things about how Louis had been impatient to get back to Paris — too impatient for the overland journey *and* too impatient to wait a week for the seas to clear. 

You could say a whole *lot* of things about that, and how not even the Queen could get him to listen, much less Treville. 

You could also say things about how bloody Richelieu had been sending all sorts of tempting and teasing and ominous hints and bits of news *from* Paris *designed* to make Louis impatient — 

At the worst time of year for sailing — 

For *some* reason — 

You could write reams of shite about that, really. 

But, instead, what Porthos is doing is getting ready to help, however he can. 

Treville is ordering the Queen and her ladies out of their heavy clothes and into the lightest things it'll be decent for them to be seen in, in case it comes to swimming. 

Athos and Aramis are doing the same for Louis. By the sound of it, they're having a struggle there. It won't last long. Athos *will* remind the prissy arsehole that he won't need his jewels at the bottom of the drink. 

Porthos has the rest of the men going over the emergency supplies, the dinghies — 

One of the dinghies has a cracked *oar* — 

And that bolt of lightning just took out a mast. 

Porthos doesn't know *which* mast it was, he just knows that it's falling in two directions — 

Men are diving into the ocean — 

There's no time to save them — 

No *time* — 

But Louis is still *arguing*. 

The first mate — d'Anton — promptly moves from La Vergne's side and slaps him silly, giving Aramis time and room to cut him out of his heavy silks while he's stiff and gibbering about arrests and summary executions. 

d'Anton has already gone back to help the Captain with his hopeless task, and now — 

Now Porthos is getting people *into* the dinghies — 

Just — 

Quickly, quickly — 

Cutting them down, and getting them into the water — 

The churning, roiling — 

The Queen has her ladies in check, and that's good to see, that's always good, Porthos puts her on a dinghy with Athos and Aramis — 

And then it's time to take care of Louis — 

Still gibbering — 

Still — 

Fuck, it's too dangerous to knock him out — 

There are chips and huge *planks* of wood flying everywhere — 

The ship is falling apart *under* them — 

Porthos picks Louis up bodily and *puts* him on a boat, and Treville's right there to keep him there, good, good — 

Porthos gets the other nobles sorted — 

Tries to get the sailors taken care of — 

And the ones who aren't needed to help with the dinghies won't leave La Vergne. Won't leave their *ship*. Won't — 

Shit — 

d'Anton smiles ruefully at him. "Go, son. Go with your brothers. We'll meet on the other side, have a drink." 

Porthos feels his whole chest *ache* for that — 

He has to — 

"Porthos du Vallon! Move your *backside*!"And that's Treville, calling out to him through the storm, through the — the whole bloody *ocean* falling on them from the *sky* — 

Porthos moves, getting in with the last of the Musketeers — 

Hirondelle and Furet cut the ropes — 

The boat hits with a jar — 

They row *exactly* like their lives are depending on it — broken oar and all — and it actually seems like they're going to make it. 

The other two boats stay in sight, the storm slackens off once they're out of sight of the sinking ship — 

Land is still a distant *dream*, but — 

But then the next squall hits, and the lightning is bone on black silk, and all they can do is hunker and try not to lose sight of each other — 

And then all they can do is hunker — 

And then a wave dashes them against *something* they can't see — it might well be another wave — and there's a mighty crack — 

Men are screaming — 

They're all being *thrown* — 

Porthos does his best to keep a grip on his fellows to hold them to keep them from being whirled away — 

He's cold and shuddering — 

His leathers weigh a thousand pounds — 

He's got someone!

He's got — "WHO ARE YOU!" 

"BLAIREAU!"

"HOLD MY HAND TIGHT AND HELP ME FIND THE OTHERS!" 

And they search that way, eventually finding a big hunk of wood to rest on, calling out until they're hoarse and bleeding in their throats. They find Hirondelle through the yelling, but Furet is too deaf for that to work in this storm. 

Let him be all right. 

Let him have held on to something that bloody *floats*. 

Let the *others* be — 

Fuck, fuck, *fuck* — 

Porthos, Hirondelle, and Blaireau keep floating through the storm, taking turns calling as it slackens — 

And Furet *bellows* back after what seems like three bloody years — "WHAT TOOK YOU FUCKERS SO BLOODY LONG?" He's lying *on* a *massive* plank of wood — big enough to be a raft...

It can only mean the ship had broken to pieces. 

They — 

Porthos says a prayer. 

They float for a time, looking for anything that will help them steer better than planks. 

Breathing. 

Resting. 

And then the next squall comes. 

The first time they get slammed against something too big and hard for — 

Black.


	2. Definitely let's be polite.

Porthos wakes up in a deep, blue underworld. There's a powerful arm around his chest, so he's not worried, but he'd like to know —

And then a bloody *iridescent* blue-green-golden *thing* with the face of a handsome young man, gills, webbed fingers, extra eyelids under the normal ones, and long black hair looks down at Porthos from where it — he? — is holding onto him — 

(I'm a he, yes.) 

Uh. 

The thing — the man — the — 

The — 

(You can call me a man. I don't mind.) 

Uh... What do you prefer? That, Porthos thinks, seems like a good place to start. 

(I'm a Maren. But 'man' only means 'male' in your tongue, doesn't it? I'm male.) 

There's a moment — a long one — when Porthos only wants to scream a bit about the fact that they're having a conversation in their heads, somehow — 

Silently — 

In their *heads* — 

Because they're underwater — 

And how is Porthos *breathing*? 

(I changed you — temporarily. You'll be able to breathe something like the way I do while my magic holds.) 

*Magic* — but. 

But. 

This *isn't* the first time Porthos has been exposed to that — 

(No, it isn't. I'm not very familiar with your kind — kinds? — of magic, but I know it's there. It made this easier,) the Maren says. He — 

I — what's your name? I mean — is that polite to ask?

The Maren looks pleased at the question — or possibly at both questions. It makes him look younger, and somehow softer, even though, when he smiles, his teeth are sharp as blades.

Porthos shivers — 

(Are you afraid? Or cold? I've warmed you — I could warm you more —) 

I'm — I'm warm enough — 

(Don't be afraid. I won't harm you.) 

What — 

(I'm d'Artagnan. And you're Porthos. May I call you by your name?) 

I — yeah, of course — and. Can I call you —

(Call me d'Artagnan, please. Call me — and I. I'm taking you back to my home —) 

Wait — 

(You have wounds. I have to care for them.) 

I can't even feel — 

d'Artagnan smiles ruefully, teeth gleaming no more than the scales on his tail. (That's my doing. You'd find this swim very uncomfortable with all your scrapes and bruises — anyway. I'll take care of you.) 

I appreciate that, I really do, but I have to get back to my — 

(Your... companions. Your charges. The people you were trying to save.) 

Porthos's stomach clenches — Trying — 

(They were in much better shape than you were. I... subtly helped them reach shore.) 

Oh. Oh. All of them? All three — well, our dinghy was smashed to pieces — 

(The other two were more or less in one piece,) d'Artagnan says, and smiles again. (Your companions from your dinghy joined with them.) 

Porthos relaxes, all over, and crosses himself — 

(That is... a gesture of religious relief?) 

Uh. Among other things, yes. 

d'Artagnan nods thoughtfully. (You're a religious man.) 

Well — no, actually. Not very much of one, at all. But... sometimes you need a little something extra. 

d'Artagnan looks at him *studyingly*, thin-slitted nostrils flaring. 

Something about that confusing?

(I'm... not familiar with that. We were told that all humans in this region were either very religious or very... irreligious.) 

'We'? 

(All of the schools that moved into this region — it's not important. Are you saying that there are degrees?) 

Porthos smiles wryly. There usually are, mate. For everything. 

(We were told that your dominant religion works to *remove* degrees from everything.) 

And that — well — All right, there's that. 

d'Artagnan nods with a troubled look on his face — 

Like maybe he doesn't want to deal with someone who could be even a little bit religious about a religion like that — 

And who can *blame* him — 

And why are they talking about *religion*? 

d'Artagnan blinks at him with those extra eyelids — 

Looks worried — 

And then looks *stalwart*. (I'd like to know. About the man I'm saving.) 

And that's just fine. Porthos nods. Right, then, see — there's the Church, and the religion they're selling, and we're all buying it a little, because it's most of what we know *about* religion. 

d'Artagnan nods again, frowning. 

Porthos nods back, giving himself a moment to just *look* at all the blue surrounding them, all the different shades of it, all the fish and plants and — 

They *can't* be that deep, and it must be daylight somewhere above them, and it's — 

Amazing. 

Just amazing. 

But he has a tale to tell. 

(Thank you,) d'Artagnan says, and Porthos would swear his tone was grateful, even though Porthos hasn't *done* anything yet. 

Well, he'll find some way to make it up to this man. 

In the meantime: Sometimes you get lucky, and you get a friend like Aramis. 

(Aramis is one of your companions?) 

He was in one of the other dinghies. Longish chestnut-ty hair, golden skin, *really* nice to look at —

(He was... very pale. He was looking for you.) 

Oh... shit. I have to — well, you'll *tell* me how I can pay you back so I can get back to my — 

(Yes, I — tell me more about the religion first,) d'Artagnan says, and the impatience in his voice is endearing and — 

Could I ask — how old are you? 

d'Artagnan manages to fidget and squirm *while* keeping his iron grip on Porthos *and* continuing to swim fast and strong. It's pretty remarkable. 

Porthos grins. It's all right, you know. I know a lot of young men who make life-altering decisions for themselves — and others. 

d'Artagnan settles, just like that. (You do?) 

Aye. You're maybe... seventeen? 

(Close, by your reckoning. I — I already did my Rites! I'm a man!) 

Easy, easy, I believe you. So — do you live with your parents? 

(I. I don't. Don't — leave that.) 

I will. Anyway, Aramis was raised in the Church, but he ran away, in *part* because he saw that they took their own holy books and corrupted them.

(*Oh*. Yes?) 

Mm-hm. The real holy books — that most humans can't read, or afford to own — are absolutely full of possibilities and acceptance and *degrees*, and Aramis has taught some of us a lot about it. Those of us who would sit still and listen. So... that's how a man like me can be religious and not religious all at once. I've seen and done too much that has nothing to do with Christianity — much less Catholicism — to be truly a part of that church, but I can respect the truths deep inside it. And the trappings and gestures...

They get *in* you, d'Artagnan. They get to be, well, *reflexive*. Does that make sense? 

d'Artagnan grips him tighter for a moment — 

Says *nothing* for a *longer* moment — 

Swims *faster* — 

d'Artagnan...? 

(Wait — I — wait...) 

All right...

And then they're swimming deeper, and deeper, and the world is a richer, darker blue — 

Porthos can make out what looks to be *caves* —

(We're almost here. Almost home. I want to show you — so many things — I —) But d'Artagnan doesn't finish that sentence before swimming them into a cave system — 

No, it's a series of empty rooms, walls decorated with paintings and mosaics — 

d'Artagnan slows down to let him see the mosaics, the tiles in beige and rust and crimson, of warriors fighting great sea-beasts with spears and magic — 

(My mother made these.) 

She's an amazing artist, Porthos says honestly — 

(She *was* one. She died when I was four,) d'Artagnan says — 

Porthos winces. I'm sorry — 

(You can see — here she is —) And d'Artagnan points to one of the warriors wielding a glowing spear against a shark the size of a *big* tree. d'Artagnan has her hair, and the purpling around their gills is the same, as well as the gold tinges to their iridescence. 

She was beautiful, Porthos says, *also* honestly — 

And d'Artagnan looks at him. Studies him again, with his broad lips parted, and his nostrils flaring. (I have to take care of you.) 

Do you — do you need to rest? 

d'Artagnan shakes his head. (This — this is all — Maren are very strong, Porthos,) he says, and makes a sweeping gesture with his free hand — the water starts to drain from the room. *Somehow*. (This is going to be a little uncomfortable for you. We're both going to spit the water out of our lungs —) 

Oh — shit, that sounds bloody horrible — 

(You get used to it,) d'Artagnan says easily. (After that, we'll be breathing air again.) 

Oh — you can *do* that? 

d'Artagnan grins at him. (I'll show you.) 

Once the water is at chest-level for both of them, d'Artagnan... *shifts*. He's still blue-green-golden; he still has gills and webbing between his fingers; he still has long, black hair, a broad mouth, and a well-muscled body... 

But he has *legs*, not a tail, and *feet*, and webbed *toes* — 

And an *impressive* cock the colour of certain lakes at sunset. It — 

Porthos shouldn't be *staring* — 

And then d'Artagnan starts coughing and spitting into the draining seawater. It *sounds* horrendous, and Porthos realizes it's what he has to look forward to. It — 

(Do you want to do it now?) 

Fuck — yes. 

And then d'Artagnan waves a hand — 

Porthos *heaves* — 

Chokes and *coughs* — 

And retches out the water painfully and — thankfully *quickly*. It feels like he's drowning the whole bloody *time*, and even knowing that d'Artagnan won't let that happen — 

(I really won't!) 

The feeling doesn't stop. 

And doesn't stop — 

And doesn't *stop* — 

Until it does, and the water is around their ankles — d'Artagnan is really *tall* for a sixteen-year-old — and they're both breathing air, and — 

And Porthos tries — "So... hello?" 

d'Artagnan smiles, and his teeth are more square — though the canines are still long and sharp. "Do they bother you?" 

Porthos blinks — "You're — still in my head?" 

d'Artagnan cocks his head to the side. "You expected me not to be?" 

Porthos laughs helplessly, throat complaining for the treatment. "I was, yeah, but I can regroup on that." 

"Maren don't hide from each other unless there's something badly wrong," d'Artagnan says, quietly. 

"And — there's nothing wrong. There's..." Porthos smiles ruefully. "I've nothing to hide from you." 

"Are you *positive* about that?" 

Porthos closes the distance between them, noting that he's down to one boot and the sock inside it, his trousers and breeches, and shirt. The rest is lost to the waves. He'll worry about that later. For now, he rests one hand on d'Artagnan's broad, slick shoulder — 

It's warm -— 

Porthos squeezes, and d'Artagnan shudders and looks up at him with his eyes wide and dark. The extra eyelid covers them completely, and there's a light blue sheen to them and —

And Porthos laughs at himself. "I could look at you for hours, mate." 

"You could do that without opening your mind —" 

"I *get* that I said something — *implied* something — really big and dark and wrong, d'Artagnan, but I didn't meant it that way. I didn't. I was just surprised that we'd be using both kinds of communication, which, now that I think about it, is stupid, because of course two people who don't know each other well would want to use as many different kinds of communication as possible. Right?" 

d'Artagnan licks his lips, something hard and brittle cracking behind his face. "And. And more than that."

"Right, yeah, exactly. You don't want to have misunderstandings at any point in a relationship, so — as much communication as possible. I can think of about a thousand times when I would've loved a back door into Aramis's mind — or Athos's. Or when I would've loved it if they could have a look into *my* mind." 

d'Artagnan stares into him for a long moment, unblinking and silent. 

"Mm?" 

"You think you don't always make yourself clear." 

"That's about the size of it —" 

"I... find that difficult to believe, Porthos," d'Artagnan says, and leads them toward the — sealed-looking — door on the other side of the room. He opens it with a wave of his hand — 

Scents of salt and incense and indefinable musk waft out, and Porthos steps down into a room with more, smaller mosaics on the walls. These have more peaceful scenes, like the piece obviously meant to draw the eye of everyone walking in the room: Heavily-stylized male and female Maren figures breaching equally-stylized waves and reaching up to present their infant to... the sky? 

The moon? 

He doesn't know. It's beautiful. 

There's furniture to sit on or lie — no. There's furniture for people with legs and furniture for people with *tails*. And then he looks to d'Artagnan — 

Who's smiling at him like he's done a trick, instead of using the brain in his head. 

Porthos *maybe* should be less pleased about that than he is, but — 

But that's not going to happen anytime soon. d'Artagnan may be a man, but he's still young — and Porthos is exactly who he is. 

He lives to be impressive. "So... give me the tour? Or do you need to patch me up now?"

d'Artagnan's smile turns into a long, heavy, solemn look — 

"Hey, now, what's that —" 

"You shouldn't worry about being clear, Porthos."

Porthos opens his mouth —

"Not — not even to the people who can't look in your mind," d'Artagnan says, and reaches over to pluck at Porthos's cold and clammy shirt. "It's customary to remove clothes *outside*." 

Porthos blinks — 

Thinks about saying something incredulous -— 

Doesn't. "Right. I'm sorry —"

"No, you — you didn't know, and you're the kind of person who *would* follow another man's culture, no matter how strange it was to you, just to make the other man comfortable..." 

"So long as it didn't hurt anyone —"

"Your clothes," d'Artagnan says. "Your clothes are hurting you."

"I — of. Because they're cold and wet and that's bad — I still can't *feel* my wounds, you know." 

"Your left leg is badly injured under your... clothes. I don't know the words for those garments. The wetness is causing them to chafe —" 

"Right, I'm stripping off — everything, right?" 

"If you're comfortable —" 

"I'm a soldier, mate," Porthos says, and winks. "I'm naked in front of people all the time." 

d'Artagnan nods with obvious pleasure. "That's... proper." 

"Is it? I was thinking it was just practical." 

"That, too, but —" d'Artagnan frowns and takes Porthos's clothes from him as he strips down. 

"But?" 

"It's... we were told that one of the problems with your people is that you don't spend enough time together. Communing together." 

Porthos wags his head for that as he fights with his wet laces. "I can believe that. We have a lot of little dances we do before we can get to know one another —" 

"Dances?" 

"Well, not literal ones. Not all the *time*, anyway. We always have to play these *games* with pride and such. We can't see each other as a matter of course." 

d'Artagnan nods. "I think the nudity must help," he says, reaching out with his free hand and covering Porthos's trouser-laces — 

"Hey —" 

"Hm?" And d'Artagnan pulls his hand back — the laces are dry. 

"Oh — oh. That's a great trick." 

d'Artagnan smiles. "It takes more power than some things, but my clan... feeds on, for lack of a better term, storms. I'm very strong today." 

"I *noticed*," Porthos says, and laughs softly, opening his trousers at last — and the laces on his breeches are dry, too. "Thank you." 

"Thank *you*. Some warriors are stubborn about their wounds." 

"Learned that lesson, didn't I?" And Porthos shoves his trousers and breeches down and off and follows d'Artagnan back out the door where, now that Porthos is paying attention, there are little sealed boxes for clothes. 

"How so? And these will clean and freshen your clothes while we wait," d'Artagnan says, and leads them back inside. 

"I — how — never mind." 

d'Artagnan grins at him. 

Porthos grins back. "I almost lost my eye being stubborn. I won a fight when I was young — beat down a couple of real arseholes who'd been terrorizing the neighbourhood, badly enough that they wouldn't be coming back again — and I was being celebrated for it — everyone else was buying the drinks. My woman at the time, Flea, kept telling me to go get the wound cared for with more than just a dirty bandage, but I wasn't hearing it. I wanted my party. I didn't want to stay around any witches that night." 

"Oh... no —" 

"Oh, *yes*. I was sick for... days and days. I honestly don't know how long. I couldn't *see* out of this eye for a while — not well, anyway — and, when it was all said and done, the witches had to do some pretty powerful magic to save my hide." 

"The... sickness would've gotten into your *brain*, Porthos!" 

"Yeah, well, I know that *now*," he says, ruefully, and follows d'Artagnan into more rooms set up more or less like the first: Comfortable spaces with lots of room to lounge for people with different-shaped bodies. 

If there are bedrooms, Porthos can't tell. 

"Anyway, I wound up with this scar, and this squint, and a healthy respect for dealing with my injuries tout de suite." 

d'Artagnan nods. "My mother was a warrior. She taught me how important it was to care for your wounds quickly," he says, and leads them into — a plain room. There are no mosaics, and the furniture doesn't look made for lounging as opposed to — 

"Is this the surgery?" 

d'Artagnan smiles again. "Yes. Mother led squads of warriors, and while this wasn't their base, they often met here." 

"And they still do?" 

"Sometimes," d'Artagnan says, and helps Porthos up onto a bed made for people shaped more or less like he is. "They helped raise me." 

"What about your father?" 

"He. He was a councillor." 

And there it is. 'Was'. 

"Don't." 

"All right, lad," Porthos says gently, and focuses on his own body. Gives d'Artagnan some privacy. 

He's covered in bruises and scrapes, and there are open wounds on his left leg. The leathers had protected him from the worst of it, but not all of it, and, now that he *can* see the wounds — 

Now that he can *focus* on them — 

d'Artagnan snorts. "Don't do that, either," he says, cupping Porthos's jaw and turning Porthos to face him. 

"I —" 

"This is going to hurt. My clan is not as good at healing magic as others. But I still have some skill from my father, and my mother's battle-work. I'll take care of you," he says, hard and sure despite his age. 

Porthos nods --

And then d'Artagnan opens a bottle of what *looks* like black water, *behaves* like smoke, and *strikes* like a snake — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

Stiffens and bites his own lip *hard* — 

"I'm sorry. This — this doesn't hurt Maren quite so much —" 

"Just — just finish —" 

"It's almost over, Porthos. It's almost — I'll make it better —" 

Porthos gasps a laugh — 

The pain *slams* through him — 

Makes him sweat and tense and *throb* — and then... it starts to fade. 

It seems like an illusion, at first. 

It seems like — it's impossible to trust at first. Porthos keeps waiting for the pain to intensify again, for his perception *of* the pain to *change* again — 

But it keeps fading — 

And fading — 

And then it stops. 

And Porthos goes loose, all over, and moans helplessly. He feels *burnt*, like he'd spent too long in the sun — but that feeling is fading, too. He tilts his head back to take a breath -- mosaics on the ceiling. 

Nice things for the patients to look at, in golds and greys and browns.

And, by the time Porthos has his breath back, all of his wounds are gone. 

All of his *bruises* are gone. 

He — 

He's in *perfect* condition, and he's starting to *feel* like it *rapidly* — 

Porthos yawns.

*Sways* — 

"Oh —" 

"Fuck — sorry —" 

"No, I'm sorry," d'Artagnan says. "Sometimes the healing makes people sleepy — I should've thought — come with me." 

"What —" 

"You'll rest, and then — then I'll get you some food —" 

"I have to — I have to get back —" 

"You're not strong enough for that, yet," d'Artagnan says, and there's something strange about the way he says that, Porthos thinks, but he's also yawning his head off — 

Again — 

*Again* — 

And d'Artagnan has to all but *lift* him off the table — 

Porthos is *staggering* — 

"It's all right," d'Artagnan says, "I promise it's — I'll take care of you." 

And that sounds -— 

Really — 

Black.


	3. If you blink, you'll miss the fight Porthos puts up.

Porthos wakes up to the sound of blades being sharpened, and smiles and goes right back to sleep, because *somehow* he'd made it right back to the garrison, and *that* means someone will wake him up when it's actually time for him to move his arse. 

~

Porthos wakes up to the smell of fish, and that's worrying, because no one should ever allow Cook to buy fish — 

He tends to think the fish should be old enough to fight back — except. 

This... smells good?

Not like his mother's fish stew — nothing has ever been as good as that — but this — 

He opens his eyes and sits up — 

And d'Artagnan is smiling at him and holding a *big* bowl of — fish stew. 

Porthos can't guess at the seasonings, other than 'mouth-watering', and — "Is that all for me?" 

d'Artagnan nods. "I already ate. You're supposed to share your bowl with your guests, so I'll have a spoonful or two, but you really need this whole thing." 

Porthos grins. "I won't argue." 

d'Artagnan grins back, and sets the bowl down on the bedside table while Porthos gets comfortable and looks around — at another room that looks set-up for *several* people to lounge around in. Hunh. 

His stomach growls before he can ask the question, though, so he eats. 

"Do you... I could look into your mind for your questions," d'Artagnan says, and sounds eager. 

"Mm —" You do that. Please!

d'Artagnan grins again. "Every home is designed this way, more or less, in most Maren clans. We don't all follow each other around when we want to sleep in private, but... we *know* when someone wants to sleep alone, and when they don't. Do you see?" 

Porthos blinks while he chews, and considers... And people just sort of... melt away when one or more people want to be alone? 

"Yes. Though there can be jokes, and teasing, of course." 

I like that! 

"I like your laugh," d'Artagnan says, and gives him another serious look, which is a little queer, because — 

You haven't heard that much of it, lad...

"I mean — from what I have... heard." 

Porthos pauses in his eating. 

And — when d'Artagnan flushes, it turns his whole face that shade of purple around his gills. It — 

He knows he just got caught out. 

"I. I was watching you." 

Porthos blinks *more* — 

"Before the storm." 

Porthos licks his lips. "You mean... you were watching our ship? I was — I was just working..." 

"You should eat. I — I don't know how to cook many things, but I know how to cook that —" 

"It's bloody great —" 

"Thank you, but —" 

"I'll eat," Porthos says, and gestures for peace, trying to think. 

Trying, really, to think of what he should *do* in this — 

Well. 

If *Aramis* had found out that a likely and beautiful young *woman* had been watching him for some length of time, then that woman would already be most of the way to seduced. 

If *Athos* found out the same thing, the woman would've been introduced to at least four likely and beautiful young men of the appropriate station while Athos used *them* to help him disappear for a while. 

Neither extreme really *appeals* to Porthos, and — 

It's not that no one ever winds up with a little pash for him. It's not that he doesn't have his affairs and all that. 

But. 

d'Artagnan had saved his *life* — 

And patched him *up* — 

And — 

"I. Don't want your gratitude," d'Artagnan says, and he's talking to his webbed toes. 

Porthos stops eating again. 

"I can see... it's not so different in your culture," d'Artagnan says. "No one would want that — that kind of — um." If anything, he's flushing even harder. 

"d'Artagnan..." 

"You should *eat* —" 

"I will —" 

"You *need* it —" 

"*d'Artagnan*," Porthos says, using the hard voice that a boy raised by a warrior *ought* to know — 

He looks up immediately, eyes wide and extra eyelids pulled back a little. "Porthos?"

Porthos growls. "I think you're beautiful. It's not about *gratitude* —" 

"You were — you were thinking about paying me *back*, about making sure I had my *due* —" 

"I was *thinking* that a young man like you was worth more than a bounce on a *mattress*." 

"Worth — oh." d'Artagnan's extra eyelids slide shut again, and he looks thoughtful. "*You* don't know what that means." 

"No, I don't. Not — entirely." 

"You want me." 

"I do, yeah, but —" 

"Eat your food," d'Artagnan says. "I have to care for you more, and we can — we can think about it. Can't we?" 

Porthos tries very, very *hard* to not think about how *young* d'Artagnan is — 

"I've had my Rites, Porthos. You're not... taking advantage." 

"I'm... not sure about that." 

d'Artagnan smiles wickedly. "You're not taking advantage by the rules of *my* culture, and that's where we *are*. Now eat your food." 

Porthos snorts — and eats. When he's almost done, d'Artagnan takes the spoon and eats four small bites before giving the spoon back. 

The creamy broth on his lips is — 

Right. 

Porthos finishes his stew. "Where do I go to wash this up?" 

"You're my guest. I *know* you know what that means," d'Artagnan says, and gives him a *stern* look, exactly like Porthos had tried to get one over on him and failed. 

*Right*. 

Porthos makes a show of lying back on the bed-like thing and getting comfortable — 

"Oh! I almost forgot!" And d'Artagnan runs out with the bowl and spoon, graceful on his long legs, and returns with a barnacle-crusted bottle of wine and two perfect glasses. The look on his face is pleased and proud, and Porthos immediately wishes he knew more about wine. "You don't have to! You just have to tell me if this is actually delicious!"

"Well, I can do that, I suppose," Porthos says, opening the bottle with some difficulty — it's clear that it would've been ludicrously easy for d'Artagnan — and pouring for both of them. 

The vintage is dark and clear, and smells a bit like wood, and nothing at all like vinegar, which are all good signs. Porthos drinks — and the warmth and sweetness of it is immediate.

"Oh... this is like... a little like *berries*." 

"What are...?" 

Porthos fills his mind with thoughts of denuding bushes full of sweet little treats with his brothers whenever they're stuck out in the woods at the right time of year — 

The burst of them — 

The sweetness and tartness — 

"Ohh... I want those!" 

Porthos grins. "Yeah, eh? Come to shore sometime and I'll get you a *bushel*." 

d'Artagnan stares at him for a long moment. 

"Mm?" 

"You meant that." 

"'course I did. Everyone should have those! I didn't, at all, when I was coming up, 'cause I was raised in the city, but —" 

"You'd want to see me even if you went back to all your brothers." 

Porthos stops himself — 

And thinks. 

This big house. 

This big, empty house. 

No parents. No siblings. *Maybe* a close Uncle or Aunt — they'd raised him — 

"They... tried to stop me from taking my vengeance on Light Clan for killing my father. They said they were too strong. That they would..." d'Artagnan snarls. "None of them would *help* me." 

"Oh — shit. You went up against a whole clan *alone*?" 

d'Artagnan plucks at the scales on his legs. "Just their warriors." 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"I didn't have a plan, at first. Maybe I did want to die. I didn't. Then I made plans. I. I hunted them down in their beds. Singly and in twos and threes and fours and." He's flushed again. His voice is thick, choked — "I don't feel better. I don't. They shouldn't have killed my father." 

"Oh, *d'Artagnan*..." 

"The warriors from Light Clan's other regions will probably come after me. I mean, I probably shouldn't have killed all seventeen of them." 

"Um — shit —" 

"But I took their power when I killed them. I took. I'm... very strong now, Porthos, and I can take care of you, and I can —" 

"Wait. Wait just a tick, all right." 

And d'Artagnan looks up at him with wide eyes. 

"Let's — let's drink more of this really good wine?" 

d'Artagnan downs his in a swallow. 

Porthos drinks his a little more slowly, giving himself time to think, to — 

To just — 

No. He knows what this is about. He knows, and — "I can't stay with you, lad." 

"I. I like it better when you use my name." 

"d'Artagnan, then —" 

"I like it better — and I can make you happy — I'll find the ways to make you laugh, and you can be a warrior with me —"

"I —" 

"You *have* magic in you, and even though it's not our kind —" 

"Wait —" 

"You can help me, and I can help you —" 

"*Wait*," Porthos says, in the firm voice again. 

d'Artagnan grunts. 

"There's no one for you here, is there?" 

And Porthos is expecting a flinch for that, but there's nothing. Just... a cold wind that blows through both of them. "No one, Porthos." 

Porthos nods. "Well... maybe you ought to think about leaving," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

*d'Artagnan* blinks. "Do you mean... the surface world?" 

Porthos grins wryly. "You were just asking me to throw away everything for the deeps, d'Artagnan, so..." 

"But they don't — I don't look —" 

"We both know you can do *things* about the way you look to plain old humans with no magic in them. Right?" At least Porthos *hopes* so — 

"Oh — you *do*." 

"Yeah —" 

"You want me —" 

"I —" 

"You'd take me with you!" 

"We'd find a way to set you up — and maybe you could take up soldiering. Have you ever used a *sword*?" 

"Of course —" 

"Now *that's* music to my ears —" 

"Porthos..." 

"Mm? What is it? What's wrong? We can *fix* it, eh?" 

"I have... treasures. Things rescued from sunken ships... I. I can pay my own way, and help you —" 

"I don't need that —" 

d'Artagnan makes a frustrated sound. "You have to let me *do* something for you!" 

"Other than save my life and fix my hide — *MM* —" 

The kiss is hard, clumsy, awkward — virginal?

What exactly *are* the Rites? 

And why is Porthos *fixing* the kiss instead of pushing d'Artagnan *away* — 

Why is he letting d'Artagnan pluck the glass and the wine bottle out of Porthos's hands — 

And his hair is so silky — 

And the skin of his arms and shoulders is so sleek and warm, no hair at all, there, so — 

Smooth and sleek and so — 

And d'Artagnan is licking Porthos's mouth, licking all over it, but otherwise letting Porthos *lead* — 

Letting him push, letting him suck, letting him nuzzle and nip and — 

d'Artagnan groans and wraps his long, strong arms around Porthos's neck, crawls on top of Porthos, clutches with his legs, rolls them — 

*Fuck* — Porthos breaks the kiss. "Is this what you want, d'Artagnan? Me on top?" 

"I don't know, I don't know, please —" 

"Shh, it's all right, we can take it slow —" 

d'Artagnan gurgles and *humps* up against him, and his cock is hard, slick, leaking *copiously* — 

It almost seems like he's *spending*, only it's constant, endless — 

Blue-tinged and sharp-scented with *salt* — 

"Oh... d'Artagnan. I... I think I just told you a lie," Porthos says, licking his lips and staring at d'Artagnan's strange and gorgeous cock. 

"What — what?" 

"Can I taste you?" 

d'Artagnan gurgles again, *bucks* again — "*Please*!" 

And Porthos kisses him hard, kisses him deep, *fucks* d'Artagnan's mouth — 

d'Artagnan *grips* him with his thighs and *rides* him, holds him, *rubs* at every muscle of Porthos's back with those webbed fingers — 

Porthos breaks the kiss again. "Right, tasting later —" 

"Nn —" 

"This first," he says, and *shoves* against d'Artagnan's honestly *wet* cock, shoves hard, much harder than he would against a human man — 

d'Artagnan shouts — 

Trembles — 

Clutches him with *bruising* force — "I'm sorry, I'm *sorry* —" 

But he doesn't let go, and Porthos can still *rut*, and that's just what he does, fucking hot little grunts out of d'Artagnan's purpling lips, fucking them cock to cock, *riding* him — 

"Porthos —" 

"D'you like that?" 

"*Porthos*!" 

"D'you like the way I fuck you?" 

"Please — *please* —" 

"Should I do it — do it *harder* —" 

"Please don't *stop*!" 

So he doesn't, he keeps it up with just that force, and — 

And *he's* shaking — 

*Gasping* when d'Artagnan's eyes *flare* gold — 

When d'Artagnan sobs and gurgles and *screams* as he spends all over both of them, clutching so hard, so bloody *hard* — 

There's so much *spend* — 

It goes on and *on* — 

There's almost not enough *friction* — 

Porthos couldn't stop rutting if someone *paid* him — and then d'Artagnan shoves a shaky hand down between them and *grips* their cocks together — 

Hisses and burbles out something in a language Porthos can't *guess* at — and the friction is perfect, so perfect, so hot and perfect — 

Porthos grips d'Artagnan's shoulders and kisses him sloppy and hot and wet, nasty and *wet*, and it's all the finesse he can *manage*, because d'Artagnan is squeezing them bloody *randomly* and whimpering — 

Whimpering so sweet and broken and *high* — 

Porthos *coughs* a grunt into d'Artagnan's mouth and *shoves* into his fist, spurting and jerking and spurting more and *more*. 

And more than that when d'Artagnan starts licking Porthos's mouth again, starts — 

Fuck — 

Porthos groans and spurts more and *shakes* — 

d'Artagnan clutches him and licks the sweat from his *face* — 

"You like the way I taste, love?" 

d'Artagnan moans and nods and sucks the sweat from beneath Porthos's *eye* — and that's just — 

Porthos leans in and licks those flushed-purple gills — salty and just a little frilled against his tongue. Porthos licks him more, and more — 

d'Artagnan groans and cups the back of Porthos's head — 

Holds him there — 

Porthos hums against the flesh — 

d'Artagnan jumps and gasps — through his lips *and* his gills. 

"You like that, too?" 

"Please. Please —" 

"Can you tell me a little about what you *don't* like?" 

"Um... it's really boring to fertilize eggs?" 

Porthos blinks — 

Tries to get any *number* of images *out* of his head — 

*Fails* — 

"That fourth one was closest —-" 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"It's the last part of the Rites," d'Artagnan says, and his voice is rueful and low. "The pairbond that was arranged at birth says their vows, and then the woman leads the newly-matured male to her clutch of eggs and he — I — ejaculate all over them. For at least an hour. While everyone chants." 

"Um. So... you have kids?" 

"They're not mine. They belong to her Clan. The pairbonding is really um... archaic is I think your word for it. Only the really old families still do it. Most people don't have children of their own until they're much older than I am, and they don't do it... that way." 

Porthos breathes a sigh of relief — 

And d'Artagnan rests a hand on his chest and looks him in the eye. "I wouldn't desert family, Porthos. Not ever." 

And that — "No, I... I'm pretty sure I already knew that about you."

d'Artagnan smiles, warm and bright. "Good."

"But uh... why... why don't you have siblings? A lot of siblings?" 

"Most people -- people in *real* relationships -- only fertilize as many eggs as they want to raise together, as opposed to fertilizing a clutch and needing the whole extended Clan to raise them. So -- my parents only fertilized one."

Porthos nods thoughtfully. That makes sense. The idea of being able to *decide* when you will or won't have kids is something out of a *fantasy* -- not even most of the witches he knows could *truly* manage *that*, but -- 

"Um." And d'Artagnan is fidgeting a little under him. Impatient, like. 

Porthos grins and makes a show of being thoughtful for just a *little* bit longer...

"Oh -- Porthos -- what do *you* like?" 

Porthos laughs. "All right, all right, I won't be a bastard *today*. I — wait, what *else* don't you like? Because we're not going to have to worry about the eggs." 

"I don't actually know. I mean, I haven't — I haven't." 

Porthos blinks. "Because... you weren't of age?" 

"Nobody pays much attention to that. I mean, do they where you come from?" 

"Well — no, but —" 

"It was mostly — there was no one in the right Clans in this region who I was really interested in. I could've gone farther, but I had to help my father, and there was my training, and there was just no time." 

And Porthos feels like — 

"No, don't — I *do* want you. I've *never* wanted anyone the way I want you!" 

"You've never had the *chance* —" 

"Don't call me 'lad' again!" 

"I *won't*, I promise, love. I just — don't want to take what I shouldn't have," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. 

d'Artagnan gets a downright muley look on his face for a creature of the deeps. "I think *I* should get to decide who should and shouldn't have *me*."

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it. "That's as may be —" 

d'Artagnan narrows his eyes *hotly*, and it's — 

It's really *painfully* endearing considering the fact that it's probably the last thing seventeen people saw. Porthos laughs softly. 

"Porthos —" 

"Shh. I surrender. You win. I want you too much to fight you. But you have to promise to keep *talking* to me, all right? Keep — being just this perfect. So I know that I'm doing the right things. So that we both know." 

d'Artagnan shivers. "Yes, Porthos." 

"So *do* you have any questions? Requests?" 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

"You didn't leak very much... does that mean you didn't like that act as much as other things?" 

Porthos blinks — 

Tries to — but. 

*But* — 

"*Oh*. You leaked — that was a normal amount?" 

"It was, yeah. I mean, I can see how *you* could spend for an hour, but if a human male tried that, he'd probably *die*." 

d'Artagnan snorts hard.

"Liked that, eh? Please don't try to do that to *me*. I've got plans for my old age." 

"What are they?" And —

The question is so *earnest* — 

So open and wanting and — 

*Despite* how flushed and hard and — 

Porthos thinks he can *feel* how much d'Artagnan is aching for him — 

"You *can*, but — I want — I want..." 

"You want this, too? Just me talking about myself?" 

"Yes, please! Tell me —" And d'Artagnan's eyes go hollow for a long moment. "It's — for a long time, the only sounds I've had have been the screams of my enemies." 

"Oh... love..." 

"I like that word. I like all the things you mean when you say it. I felt a lot of them when I watched you with your companions on that ship, when I watched you laughing." 

Porthos takes a breath — "I'm beautiful to you." 

"Your skin is like the seabed. Your eyes are like..." d'Artagnan swallows and shakes his head. "I'm not good at this. Those things aren't the most important things anyway." 

"No?"

"I could see, when you laughed, that you... ate your life in big bites. That you... savoured it and devoured it at the same time. I could see that you *were* alive, and made everyone around you live, too." 

Porthos swallows and cups d'Artagnan's beautiful face. "I can't wait to show you my world, love." 

d'Artagnan winces and arches — "*Please* —" 

"Shh, shh, what do you need? What's next, hm?" 

"No, I — I *do* want to talk — I'm sorry I was impatient before --" 

"That's maybe not what your *body* wants right now —" 

d'Artagnan gurgles and whimpers — and *yanks* Porthos's hands down to his cock and the small, loose, scaled pouch that presumably holds his bollocks. "Yes — yes — please touch — please —" 

"Hard here, maybe?" And Porthos gives those bollocks a medium-rough squeeze — 

d'Artagnan screams, cock jerking and spattering them both and seemingly everything else in the *room*. He doesn't *say* anything, but Porthos is going to go with 'yes' on that. 

He strokes d'Artagnan's cock *while* squeezing those bollocks, loving the scratch and tease of the scales on his palm — 

Wanting that cock in his *mouth* — but. 

"I want to *live* through being a soldier, and have an inn somewhere. Not *too* rowdy, but not too quiet, either —" 

"People, you want — you want *people* —" 

"All round me. People to *talk* to —" 

"No empty *houses* —" 

"Not for *either* of us," Porthos says, and speeds up — 

d'Artagnan screams again — 

Grips Porthos's hands and wrists and hands again — 

Doesn't guide so much as *ride* them, *feel* them, *stroke* them — 

"I'd have my brothers there with me, too," Porthos says, nudging up closer and forcing d'Artagnan's legs apart with his knees — 

"Blood — blood-kin?" 

"No, not for me. But Aramis and Athos —" 

"Love — love — you love them!" And d'Artagnan's voice is wild, desperate, needy, *hungry* — 

"I do, I love them with my *life*, and all of my heart — and you will, too. You'll be our brother, too, won't you?" 

d'Artagnan gasps, cock jerking again — 

Again and *again* — 

Jerking so *powerfully* — 

"Yeah, I want you to be one of us, love. We'll train you up in the ways of fighting on land, and you'll teach us all new tricks, too —" 

d'Artagnan *shouts*, whipping his head back and forth — 

"And — and I can't wait anymore, I can't — I'm sorry, love —" And Porthos scoots back and *swallows* that massive cock in a move he hasn't really used on anything this *big* since *he* was a boy — 

But the muscles remember. 

And d'Artagnan is rigid under him — 

Gasping — 

Clawing at the bed — 

His mind is loud and bright and full of the shouts he can't get out of his *throat* — 

Full of shouted *questions* — he doesn't know what he's feeling, he doesn't know why it's so *good* — 

Oh, d'Artagnan...

Porthos sucks *hard*, hard as he *can* — 

d'Artagnan *howls* — and shoves his strong fingers in Porthos's hair and *holds* his head there, right there, *right* there — 

Holds him there for a *brutal* fuck that Porthos has to almost *endure* rather than take — 

d'Artagnan is too *strong* — 

And then d'Artagnan grunts and *yanks* his hands away from Porthos — 

*Obviously* tries to *stop* fucking — 

Whimpers and whines and — shoves Porthos *back*. "Please! Please don't let me *hurt* you!" 

Porthos *pants* — 

Rubs at his jaw — 

Swallows back the drool — 

Tries to *think* — wait, no — 

"You taste *amazing*, by the way —" 

"Please — *please* —" 

"Shh —" 

"I'm so *sorry* —" 

"Shh, 's all right, your body just took over for a moment, and — and you're not quite built to make love to a human man —" 

"*No* —" 

"Shh, 's all *right*, I said. I've got ways around this," Porthos says, and winks. 

d'Artagnan blinks. "You — you do?" And he licks his lips. His gills are flexing, his chest is heaving — 

"You're so gorgeous. Fuck. Right, let's — let's try *this*," Porthos says, and uses the napkin d'Artagnan had brought with dinner to wipe the base of his cock good and dry, then wraps his left hand round it — 

"Nngh —" 

Squeezes *tight* — 

"Porthos — *Porthos* —" 

"Now, this will keep you from reaming my face quite so precipitously, like. Especially if you hold on as best as you can on your end, eh?" 

d'Artagnan stares up at him with wide, blue-tinged eyes. "And — and maybe — I won't put my hands in your hair?" 

Porthos knows he looks mournful for that, but — "Yeah, love, not this time. We'll work our way up to that." 

And now d'Artagnan looks *determined* — "You *like* that. Of *course* I look — please — please touch me more, please taste me, please —" 

"*Absolutely*," Porthos says, and gets right back down there, nibbles up the underside of that cock — 

"AHN — no — *no* — I'll lose control!" 

Oh, love... "Then this," Porthos says, and sucks right on the head, sucks it in and makes love to it, kisses the slit and suckles and *moans*, because it feels like he's suckling out all d'Artagnan's juices, like he's pulling them right out of d'Artagnan's beautiful body — 

Beautiful *straining* body — 

So hard, so sleek — 

"Porthos — *Porthos*!" 

You taste so perfect, love. I want to do this all *day*... 

(I can't I can't I can't) 

You *can*. You can do it for *me*. 

d'Artagnan burbles out something in that other language — 

Howls and twitches *massively* - 

*Spits* slick — so hot and sweet-salty-musky — 

That's right, Porthos says, that's just right, fill me up, give me all of you. And Porthos slurps around d'Artagnan's cock and takes just a little more before slurping right back *up* again — 

d'Artagnan screams and bucks *violently* — 

Porthos punches himself in the *mouth* and squeezes reflexively — 

And d'Artagnan screams again and tenses like a bloody *plank* in the moments before he spurts like a *fountain*. 

Porthos *fights* the urge to swallow him again and just sucks all that spend right down, licks and laps and suckles and — 

Doesn't nibble — 

They'll work their way up to that, *too* — 

d'Artagnan *sobs* — 

Moans and spurts *more* — 

Porthos keeps *sucking*, swallowing and *wishing* for this cock in his throat, for a fuck he can stand — 

d'Artagnan *knocks* Porthos's hand aside and *pulls* him on — 

d'Artagnan — 

And the fuck is slow and hard and — hot — 

So hot — 

So *hot*, so thick and hot and — 

And periodically, d'Artagnan's cock *spasms* and he spends all over the back of Porthos's throat — 

And he just keeps *fucking* Porthos, cradling his head and moaning and *shuddering* — 

Porthos reaches down to grip his own cock and try to get it to calm *down* — 

"You like — you like this so *much*!" 

Porthos nods and moans — 

Groans in his *chest* when d'Artagnan stops fucking him and *lodges* there for a long moment — 

"I'm — I'm sorry —" 

It's all right — 

"I'll shift if I keep fucking, I'm too sensitive, I can't — I should have more *control*!" And d'Artagnan sounds *bitterly* angry with himself, bitterly *hurt* by his own *youth* — 

No, love, *no*, Porthos says, and tugs against d'Artagnan's grip on him — 

"No, no, you *want* — " 

I want other things, too, Porthos says, and tries to *force* d'Artagnan to feel his honesty — 

d'Artagnan gasps, cock twitching *again* — 

He pushes Porthos *back* — 

He scoots away — 

"No, no, not that *far*, love," Porthos says, and clears his throat — 

"You — you were ordering — that was the tone you used." 

"I didn't mean to. I just wanted to make sure you could feel that I wasn't telling you a lie," Porthos says, and tries a handful of different soothing gestures. 

d'Artagnan eyes his hands curiously — but then looks into his eyes and nods. "You — want me close." 

"Yeah, I do," Porthos says, and grins. 

"You want to make love other ways." 

"That, too." 

"What ways?" 

"First off — how was that for you?" 

d'Artagnan blinks. "You couldn't *tell*?" 

Porthos laughs hard. "I could tell that your *body* liked it, but...?" 

d'Artagnan flushes, purple and dark. "Your mouth — I'll never. I'll never be able to look at it without thinking of you doing *that*. *All* of those things you were doing." 

"You liked it all? Even having to be still?" 

d'Artagnan smiles ruefully. "I would've preferred... um... fucking. But I liked it. I liked you... holding me." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "That didn't work *perfectly* — my lip is going to be a little bruised, I think —" 

"Oh — no — it won't be. The healing will prevent new wounds for at least a few days." 

Porthos blinks — 

Stares — 

"Well — all *right*, then," he says, and laughs more. 

d'Artagnan grins up at him brightly, wonderfully —

"You're so sodding beautiful. I..." Porthos shakes his head. "Don't know how I got this lucky, but I promise *I'll* take care of *you*, eh?" 

d'Artagnan moans — "You don't — you don't have to —" 

"Shh. None of us have to do anything but our duty, and even that's something that gets a mite iffy when it comes right down to it. But there's 'have to' and there's '*have* to' and I know what I *have* to do." 

"Porthos..."

"Yeah. So. You liked it when I *held* you." 

"*Yes*." 

"What if I tied you up somehow, hm? I bet it would take heavy chain, but we could pad those with something warm and soft...?" 

And d'Artagnan's eyes are wide again, just that fast.

"No? Yes? Maybe?" 

"I... I know how to bind someone with my power...." 

"I don't —" 

"But I could... show you how I do it. And then maybe you could use yours?"

Porthos *blinks*. "I... haven't done anything *like* that..." 

"And you don't want to. You think it might be dangerous?" 

"What if we can't figure out how to free you?" 

"I'll break the couch," d'Artagnan says, blunt and matter-of-fact and — 

And yes, absolutely, they're doing this. "Show me," Porthos says. 

d'Artagnan *beams* — and positions himself spread-eagle on the — couch, not bed. "Hold my wrists!" 

Porthos does — and feels something *reaching* for him, for the things that make him who he is *inside*, *deep* inside, all the way down and down and — 

And there it is, something — 

Something strange and a little wrong-feeling, a bit like trying to read a book when it's upside-down and turned-over, besides, but — 

If Porthos turns the book right side up — 

And flips it — 

There's a sound from outside himself — 

A gasp? Porthos looks — and there are green glowing *manacles* around d'Artagnan's wrists, and d'Artagnan is staring at him *wonderingly*. 

"Is that all right, love? Are you —" 

"You did that so fast!" 

"You showed me *how* —" 

"No one else can *catch* me — oh, *Porthos*, you have to tell me all *about* your magic, all — what *is* it?" 

"It's — it's *earth* magic, and I don't know much about it, because I haven't had training —" 

"Oh. The *Mother*. The Mother who is the Mother of *our* Mother."

"The what now?" 

"We — everyone, all the Maren, all the Clans, everyone and everything of the seas, are the children of the Mother of Waters, and *She's* the daughter of the All-Mother. *Your* Mother." 

Porthos nods. "Well, that's good and blasphemous —" 

"I thought you weren't religious!" 

Porthos winks again. "I was joking, love. You can tell, can't you?" 

"Oh — oh. Sorry, I'm just — you're *holding* me!" 

Porthos licks his lips. "That I am. Now... tell me. Am I holding your ankles, too?" 

d'Artagnan stares at him for a long moment — and then flushes *deeply*. "I — I don't know..." 

"Shh. You don't know if you can take it?" 

"I'm sorry! I won't hurt you! What do you want to *do*? You — you can tie me however you *want* —" 

"Well, we have to decide that, love. We..." Porthos sighs. "I want to make you spend yourself *mindless*. But we've choices for that —" 

"What do you like best?" 

"No, it doesn't *work* like —" 

"You want to fuck me — oh. Oh, there are so many images and *feelings* in your *mind*, Porthos! You like it so much!" 

"*But* you can tell that not all the images and feelings are good —" 

"I can also tell that the bad things involved bad people! People you hunted down and killed!" 

"I — for the most part — " And Porthos sits back on his heels and laughs. "You're not going to let me protect you." 

"Of course not! I can tell that you won't do anything I need to be protected *from*." 

Porthos swallows and just — "I think I'd try to steal you away even if you did have parents, love." 

d'Artagnan blinks. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I think I'd try to steal you away even if you had parents, a sweetheart, *and* a clutch of eggs to call your own. I know I would." 

d'Artagnan just stares at him. 

"I would... I would pretend I was just being a good friend. I would pretend to just be the kind of person who was always a lot of fun, and always a good shoulder, and always just exactly what you needed. I wouldn't ever pressure you," Porthos says, and strokes d'Artagnan's face. 

"No?"

"No. I'd just make it seem like the best idea in the world for you to come with me, and be my little brother, my beautiful little brother. You'd think it was *all* your idea to come a-soldiering with me and Aramis and Athos — who'd see what I was doing, and what I needed, and join right in even before they fell in love with you, too — and then... well..." 

"Then I'd be yours?"

Porthos winces, cock *aching*. "Yeah. Yeah." 

d'Artagnan nods slowly and thoughtfully. 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"Then it's a good thing I'm already yours, Porthos, and you don't have to pretend anything, at all." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Would it be better for you to bind my ankles?" 

"Yes, but — I'll have to move you around and — d'Artagnan, you can't just —" 

"I can and will do exactly what I want, Porthos," d'Artagnan says, staring *hard* while the couch creaks ominously under them. "And what I *have* to do, too." 

Porthos — takes a breath. "I love you," he says, gripping d'Artagnan's ankles and reaching for that power, that — 

There. 

They're both manacled, too, and he knows that wherever he *puts* those legs, they'll stay. 

d'Artagnan is his. 

All his. 

And he's damned well going to make them both *feel* it. 

d'Artagnan shivers under him and stares up with *excited* eyes, long, strong legs bent up and spread. 

"Where's your slick, love?" 

"My... oh, but you use the same word for what comes out of my body and what I use for lubricant. That's *confusing*."

Porthos grins. "Sorry. I'll do better. Where's your *lubricant* — or. Do you use any? Have you ever fucked yourself?" 

d'Artagnan looks at him for long moments — 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — 

"You're going to take me with you." 

"Yeah. I really am, love. I — I won't *force* you into anything you don't want, and not just because you could break my bones down into toothpicks if I tried —" 

"No, no, I know you wouldn't, and you wouldn't *have* to, and I..." 

Porthos pets and strokes d'Artagnan's lower legs, with the grain of the scales. "Is it too much for you, love? Do you need —" 

"I need — I need..." 

"I'm listening. Whatever you want, whatever you need, is all right." 

d'Artagnan moans. "Just touch me. Just please touch me, and — and — the lubricant — it's just oil — it's on that table —" 

"That little blue jar?" 

"The — the red — please —" 

"Shh, I've got you," Porthos says, and climbs right on top of d'Artagnan — he can *more* than take Porthos's weight — 

"Oh — oh you feel so *good* —" 

"I want to feel good for you all the time," Porthos says, and kisses d'Artagnan — 

"Mm —" 

Pulls those sleek, strong arms down — 

Twines their fingers together — as much as he can. The webbing is in the way, strong and tight, and — 

Porthos growls into d'Artagnan's mouth and breaks the kiss, turning his head so that he can nibble on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger — 

So *strong* — 

So *blue* — 

"You — you like it?" 

Porthos sucks it. "It's beautiful, like the rest of you," he says, and licks at the webbing between d'Artagnan's other fingers — 

d'Artagnan laughs like a boy — "That tickles —" 

"Oh, *does* it, now..." 

"I —" 

And Porthos licks slower, more lightly, making sure d'Artagnan is bound with his power *completely* — 

"Oh — *Porthos*!" 

Porthos *wiggles* his tongue — 

d'Artagnan giggles and snickers explosively — "I've never — I don't — what — *Porthos* —" 

Porthos nibbles and sucks — 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

Turns his head to make *love* to those gills — 

"Oh, *yes* — yes, please, *this*!" 

"This?" And Porthos *hums* against d'Artagnan's right gills, hums hard and scrapes with his beard and stubble — 

d'Artagnan strains and *gurgles* under him, tries to *arch* — 

"Oh, good lad, good *lad* —" 

"Fuck — fuck — talk into them — talk —" 

"Talk about how incredible you are? How much I want to touch you? Taste you? Suck you and fuck you and bite you everywhere?" 

"Oh, *please*!" 

Porthos licks two long stripes up the gills, then moves to the left, hums there — 

"Nuh —" 

"I'll do it, you know," he says, keeping his tone conversational and his lips pressed to the frills and tenderest-feeling parts. 

"D-do... do what?" 

"Bite you. Take *big* bites, just like you said," Porthos says, and growls again — 

d'Artagnan gurgles and *hisses* — 

"What was that?" 

"A — a — prayer — please! Please don't stop! Please don't stop!" 

"The talking?" 

"Touch — fuck — I don't know! You're so good, you're so good to me!" 

Porthos groans and shoves the fingers of one hand into d'Artagnan's hair, gripping *tight* — 

He reaches down to cup that scaled hip with the other hand — 

He *kisses* those gills — "I haven't even started yet, love." 

"Please please —" 

Porthos bites *carefully* — d'Artagnan *breathes* through these gills — 

But all d'Artagnan does is moan and writhe as much as he *can* in Porthos's manacles. He's — 

"You like that, too, love?" 

"Yes — yes —" 

"You want more?" 

"Please more, please everything, please don't stop —" 

"One day I'm going to lay you out just like this, and bite you from head to toe." 

"Oh —" More hissing — 

"I'll take *little* bites on your cock, love. So I can bite you there again and again and *again* —" 

d'Artagnan sobs — 

His gills are flushed so dark they almost look more *black* than purple — 

They're *swollen* under Porthos's lips — 

And his cock is rock-hard and slick as anything. 

The smell of salt in the air is so — 

Porthos growls and *scrapes* his teeth over those gills, left and right — 

d'Artagnan screams and *fights*, couch creaking and protesting, and Porthos has a moment to be *worried* — he pulls back — but that cock is spasming *violently*, spitting slick *everywhere*... 

Porthos gets right back down there and ruts, scraping his teeth again — 

Again — 

d'Artagnan *howls* — 

"You make that sound and you make me want to fuck you *hard*, love, you make me want to drive you *mad*, drive you right out of your *head* —" 

"B-bite — *bite* —" 

Porthos growls and does it, *shoving* against d'Artagnan's cock — 

His gills flex in Porthos's *teeth* — 

He *sobs* again — 

And then he *howls* again, jerking and bucking and spending all *over* them both. 

Oh. Just — 

Porthos keeps biting, keeps — 

Porthos bites a little *harder* — 

The howl becomes a *scream* — 

Something in the couch *cracks* — 

And d'Artagnan spurts and spurts and slumps hard against the couch, mouth slack and body loose. 

His extra eyelids are only half shut, there are little half-moon marks in his palms where his fingernails had dug in — 

And of course he's covered in slick and spend. 

He looks *debauched*. 

He looks... 

Porthos should let him *rest* — 

"No! No you shouldn't!"And d'Artagnan is licking his lips and blinking and obviously trying and failing to focus on him — 

It's *adorable* — 

"Don't — don't treat me like a *child* —" 

"*d'Artagnan*. Did you think we would only make love *once*?" 

d'Artagnan's mouth is slack again, and his eyes are wide, and — then he swallows. And flushes deeply. "I. You're like." But he doesn't finish. 

Porthos strokes his face. "What am I like, then? Tell me, I'll fix it." 

d'Artagnan moans and searches him — "You — you call them fairy stories. Like — the beautiful gift that gets snatched away at the last minute. Or — if you go to sleep." 

Porthos inhales sharply and shakes his head. 

"You *are* —" 

"I'm more loyal than that, love —" 

"Do your companions — your *brothers* — do they know you love them? Do you touch them this way? Do you talk to them this way?" 

Porthos frowns. "They don't really go for blokes, love. I've *offered* — more than once and *very* politely — but they've both turned me down."

d'Artagnan gives him a *stupefied* expression for that, which is *deeply* gratifying, but — 

"I um. I don't know how it works down *here*, love, but up on the surface, most men don't go with other men, and most women don't go with other women," Porthos says gently. "It's... it's a bit rare, actually." 

"But... not even for play?" 

"No —" 

"Not even between war-brothers?" 

"Well, that happens a bit, and I've had my offers and my *fun* —" 

d'Artagnan looks relieved.

"— but it's still rare, and — I have to be honest, love. The Church cracks down on it very hard." 

d'Artagnan looks like he's considering going to war against the *Church* — 

Which is an *idea* — 

But not the best one. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "People still do what they like, you know. They just do it... subtly. Behind closed doors, like." 

"That's disgusting." 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

"I agree." 

d'Artagnan nods. 

Porthos smiles at him. "Now let's talk about getting you some rest —" 

"Are you *positive* your brothers don't desire you?" 

Porthos laughs. "They don't *lie* to me, love. I'll admit — I've *already* admitted — that there have been times when I've wanted to be able to see into their minds, that there have been times when I've thought — *known* — they weren't telling me the whole story, but — wait." 

d'Artagnan looks down. 

"Wait — *wait*. d'Artagnan, love, are you worried about me throwing you over for one of them if they decided to change their minds?" 

"Or both of them," d'Artagnan says, to the couch. "I'm — a stranger. I'm not even your species." 

Porthos lifts d'Artagnan close, locking his hands behind Porthos's back — 

"Oh —" 

"Hold me, love." 

"I — I —" And then d'Artagnan is gripping him convulsively hard, convulsively *tight* — 

"That's right, that's just right. You're my brother now —" 

"*Please* — I — I know what you mean when you *say* that —" 

"You're my *little* brother, and that means the *world* and everything around it to me. Aramis and Athos will take one *look* at us and know that, but they'll also know it because I'll *tell* them." 

"Oh —" 

"And they'll *respect* that — and want it. They..." Porthos shakes his head and pulls back a little, just enough to look into d'Artagnan's eyes. "*We're* all lonely people, for one reason and another — and you'll know all of them before it's all said and done. We're lonely people who don't do so well with just anyone as brothers. We need special people. People like you who are smart, passionate, brave, loving, strong, vicious, and more than a little wild. People who need to take care of people just as much you need to be taken care *of*. That's... that's a small group of people right there, d'Artagnan," Porthos says, and laughs ruefully. "Do you understand?" 

"You... really believe they'll welcome me?" 

"I know they will. Oh, they'll be a bit suspicious, at first, but that's only because they're *protective* people. It won't have anything to do with failings in *you*. All right?" 

d'Artagnan nods and strokes Porthos's back, greedy and loving and hungry all at once. 

It's not the most soothing touch in the world — 

Not the most *restful* — 

Porthos *looks* at d'Artagnan — 

And d'Artagnan looks back, smiling just a little slyly. "You've only... spent once." 

"I —" 

"And you already know I won't let you protect me." 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"Especially not after all that —" 

"It was barely a few minutes of conversation!" 

"And you already know where my... slick is —"

Porthos *growls* — 

"And every time you make that noise, something goes loose inside of me and I want — I think I must want you inside me — please —" 

"Oh — fuck. *d'Artagnan* —" 

"Do it again? Make the sound again?" 

Porthos *pants* — 

Stares at his — 

His little *brother* — 

And d'Artagnan closes his eyes and tilts his head back, panting just as much and *offering* — 

He's *offering* and Porthos can *feel* it — 

Porthos *grips* him by the long hair, bites his left gills — 

"Ahn —" 

Growls *hard* — 

More gurgles and hisses and yes, *yes*, just put him on his back, drop him down, hold him down, spread him out, growl and growl and bite harder while he *strains* — 

While he *chokes* on his own gurgles — 

Sobs again — 

Struggles to arch for more contact — 

Coughs and — "Yes — *yes*!" 

And Porthos pulls back and gets the jar of lubricant, opens it — 

Is *extremely* relieved that it doesn't smell like fish — 

d'Artagnan gasps a laugh — 

And Porthos seeks behind d'Artagnan's scaly bollocks for his hole, which feels small and impossibly vulnerable.

Hot. 

*Tight* — but he's not pushing in, yet — 

"Yes, you are!" 

Yes, he is. Yes, he — oh, fuck, such muscular *heat* inside — 

So — 

*Not* as tight as it could be, thank everything holy, and — 

And d'Artagnan is flushed and panting and periodically biting his lower lip. 

Porthos pushes his index finger *all* the way in — 

d'Artagnan whimpers and writhes in place — 

Whimpers more and — "Porthos!" 

"Shh, 's all right —" 

"Yes — oh, yes — " 

"Yeah?" 

"Nothing — nothing's ever been that deep!" 

Porthos *blinks* — and then remembers those webbed fingers, which *can't* go all that deep unless he's shoving in *four* at a time. Which... he wouldn't have been — 

"That's *possible*?" 

"It is, and it's a *lot* of fun —" 

"I can see that in your head and it's — oh — oh — I want it!" 

"Then you'll have it — not today —" 

"Porthos —" 

"I can't wait that long, love. I can't — oh, love, I can't." And Porthos knows that he looks desperate, knows that he's sweating like a pig, that he's just — just *desperate* — 

And d'Artagnan moans and *clenches* around his finger — 

And gurgles and flexes *open* — 

"Please! Please do what you want!" 

"I — " 

"*Please*!" 

"Keep *talking* to me," Porthos says, and starts to fuck d'Artagnan with his finger, starts to work that oil around and around and — 

d'Artagnan cries out and clenches over and over again, cock lifting and filling, leaking copiously *again* — 

"You *like* this —" 

"Please!" 

"Tell me when you want *more*." 

"Please please *please* —" 

"No, love, you have to want *bigger*. *Deeper*. *Faster*." 

d'Artagnan trembles all over, cock *jerking* — 

"Yeah, think about it," Porthos says, and keeps fucking him with that one finger. "Think about me opening you up wide —" 

"I want — I want —" 

"You want it?" 

"I want everything from you!" 

"I want my little brother *wrapped* around my cock..." 

d'Artagnan *shouts* and flexes open again — 

"Just keep thinking about it," Porthos says, and squeezes his own cock *hard* with his free hand. "Think about my fingers, my thick, long fingers —" 

"I *want* them, Porthos!" 

"Right now? Or soon?" 

d'Artagnan sobs and looks *anguished* — 

"Soon, then. Don't worry, love. It'll go faster than you can imagine once that second finger *is* in," Porthos says, and *crooks* his finger — 

d'Artagnan goes rigid and hisses for almost a full *minute*... so Porthos keeps that up, rubbing and pressing rough circles and *working* that little pleasure-button — 

Keeping it nice and *sensitive* — "I'll fuck you *right* here once my cock is in, love —"

"M-more! More fingers *now*!" 

Porthos growls — 

d'Artagnan flexes open — 

And Porthos doesn't wait, just works that second finger *right* in, sinking them both in to the second knuckle — 

"Ah — *ahn* — *AHN* —" 

"Yeah, love?" 

"Don't move, please don't — or do — I don't —" 

"Shh, try this," Porthos says, and rocks his fingers *gently* — 

d'Artagnan strains to arch and *whips* his head back and forth, leaking slick all over the place and *sobbing* — 

"There you are, there's my little brother, you're so perfect..." 

"You! *You*!" 

"You're giving me everything I *want*, love. You're giving me everything I *crave*."

"*Porthos* — I — I'll spend!" 

"*Good* boy," Porthos says, taking his free hand off his own cock and wrapping it round d'Artagnan's — 

d'Artagnan *howls* for him again — 

Strains and writhes and clenches and flexes — 

Loses himself. 

"Oh, you perfect *boy*. *Here*," Porthos says, crooking his fingers up a little and fucking him hard, just hard — 

"YES — I —" And the rest of that is a *wild* scream, the kind of thing that makes Porthos wonder what sorts of sounds d'Artagnan makes when he's going into *battle*, the kind of thing that makes Porthos heat up all over and fuck him *harder*, squeeze his *cock* — 

d'Artagnan *spurts* — 

Flexes open *wide* around Porthos's fingers — 

Porthos can't stop himself from pushing in a third part of the way — 

The scream becomes a *shriek* — and d'Artagnan spends enough to fertilize at least three clutches of eggs. 

Unless. 

How many eggs are in a clutch? 

Is that a question he wants an answer to? 

Porthos *shoves* the thoughts out of his mind and milks that little pleasure-button while *gentling* that cock. Soft presses, gentle strokes. "There you are, love. That's... fuck, you're amazing..." 

d'Artagnan sobs and spurts a little more — 

"We'll have to bring your treasures with us to cover my laundering bills..." 

d'Artagnan makes an adorably *confused* noise — 

"Don't worry about that," Porthos says, and keeps working him slow and gentle, like. "You're beautiful like this. You're... mm. I could make you spend all day *every* day." 

And *that* makes d'Artagnan stiffen up and try — obviously try — to sit up, before he just lifts his head — "You — you have to fuck me! You have to — you haven't *spent* —" 

"I will, love. I *will*," Porthos says, and grins. "I get a little relief every time *you* spend, though." 

d'Artagnan frowns. "Is that earth magic?" 

"Mm? No, I don't think so. I think it's just something that happens to some people when they feel that wonderful about someone else."

d'Artagnan licks his lips. "You. You love me." 

"I do. And I'm going to keep you just as long as you let me —" 

"Forever. You'll — forever." 

Porthos takes a breath and moves his slick hand from d'Artagnan's cock to his scaled thigh. "You might want to come back here someday, you know." 

"And. Maybe you'll visit with me. Maybe. Maybe all of our brothers will," d'Artagnan says, and stares at Porthos *hard*. 

Determined. 

A part of Porthos just wants to meet d'Artagnan's dead parents, just wants to see and know the people who had had a hand in creating such an incredible young man. 

The rest is glad he can't hurt those good people by stealing their boy away. 

Porthos leans in to kiss d'Artagnan — careful of the fingers still inside him — 

"They would've liked you. Both of them."

"Mm? Oh. Your *parents*?" 

"You're a warrior, and you're intelligent, and you appreciate good art when you see it, and you're kind, and you're open-minded, and you're brave and loving and — and all of those good things. They would've picked you for me," d'Artagnan says, and kisses Porthos softly on the mouth. "Please fuck me now. Please — and then take me back to your home."

Porthos — groans.

There's nothing to say to that. 

Nothing to *do* — except kiss d'Artagnan hard, lay him down flat again, *test* how loose he is — 

Enough. 

Enough. 

Porthos pulls back. "Our home." 

"What?" 

"I'm taking you back to *our* home, love," Porthos says, kneeling up and tugging his fingers free. 

d'Artagnan smiles at him so *hugely* —

"My rooms aren't so big as this —" 

"I don't care!" 

"And we'll need to find a nice couch for when you want to shift and laze about with a tail," Porthos says, and slicks his cock fast, *fast* — 

"Oh — that *sound* —" 

"You like it, love? You like me tossing myself off for you?" 

d'Artagnan makes a hungry sound, a *needy* sound — 

"I'll do it. *Later*. You can watch to your heart's content," Porthos says, and cups the back of d'Artagnan's left knee — the scales are softer here, longer, smoother — "You're so bloody *beautiful*," he says, and pushes that knee *right* back to d'Artagnan's chest, knowing the magic will keep it there — 

Knowing he has a *lot* to talk about with the witches of his acquaintance — 

A lot of *apologies* to make for all the training he walked *away* from in order to follow his dream of being a Musketeer — but. 

But.

He wouldn't have wound up here if he *hadn't* walked away, now would he? 

And d'Artagnan is looking at him. Staring into him so *hungrily* — 

So — 

So wide-eyed and brave and *ready* for him — 

Porthos's cock throbs like *he's* the boy — 

He *growls* — 

"Porthos —" 

"Yeah — *yeah*," he says, lining himself up and starting to push. Nice and slow. Nice and — 

Well, judging by all that hissing and gurgling, it's really *mean* and slow — 

It's — "You want it faster, little brother?" 

"Please please — " 

"Yes or no. Be *clear* now, love," Porthos says, panting and keeping himself to the slow pace by main *force* — 

d'Artagnan is so *hot* inside — 

So tight — 

His muscles are *rippling* inside like — like the bloody *tides* — 

"*d'Artagnan*." 

d'Artagnan *grunts* — 

Gurgles more and clenches *tighter* — 

Porthos yells and bucks and — 

d'Artagnan *howls* — 

"Fuck fuck — are you all *right*?" 

"*Oh*. That *hurt*," d'Artagnan says, and he sounds wondering, shocked, *young* —" 

"I'm *sorry*, love, we don't have to —" 

"No, don't stop! Don't —" And d'Artagnan licks his lips and grins. "Do it again." 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "Love —" 

"Please!" 

"*Love* —" 

"*Hurt* me, please — oh, let me *feel*, Porthos, you know I can heal myself if you somehow injure me —" 

"I want you to have *good* feelings —" 

"Big brother..." 

Porthos grunts like an *animal* — 

d'Artagnan's dark eyes are sharp and *wicked* — 

"d'Artagnan — don't —" 

"You have to give me what I want. Don't you? Isn't that what you always wanted for a little brother?" 

"Oh... shit," Porthos says, panting and bracing himself over d'Artagnan, panting and staring down into that beautiful *face* — 

"You have to.... spoil me..." 

"*Please* —" 

"You have to give me *everything*, big brother," d'Artagnan says, searching Porthos's eyes *hard* — "And then take care of me after, all night and day, and start over —" 

Porthos *snarls* — 

d'Artagnan flexes open around him — 

Clenches up again — 

"Oh, *please*! Please! Ple—" And the rest of that is a scream as Porthos pulls out and *shoves* in — 

And does it again — 

And does it *again* — 

Over and over and *over* until d'Artagnan is whipping that head back and forth again, until Porthos can feel d'Artagnan's cock spitting slick all over both of them, until he can feel d'Artagnan's mind starting to go absolutely wild with colours and *feeling*, endless *feeling*. 

Pain, yes, but also heat and *wild* pleasure, pleasure he'd never had before, pleasure he'd never *imagined*, and Porthos knows it *is* too much for him, at least a little — 

But he can feel that d'Artagnan wants that, too. 

*Wants* to be taken out of his head, far beyond anything and everything of *this* place, this *empty* place and this world full of betrayers and people he might have to kill someday. 

Porthos can give him that. 

Porthos can — can *strangle* his own need for just a little longer and shift the angle of his fuck — 

d'Artagnan *wails* — 

Gurgles and hisses and bangs his head against the couch again and again — 

Porthos *rams* that pleasure-button until he knows it must be sensitive, swelling up in there, *aching* like every part of Porthos is aching to *gentle* his beautiful little brother, keep him safe, keep him close, keep him *happy* — 

And d'Artagnan is clawing at the couch again — 

Wailing so *high* — 

His eyes are wide open, both sets of eyelids peeled back, but he's staring at nothing, seeing *nothing* — 

His mind is so *wild* — 

And Porthos is *slick* with sweat, straining to keep up the pace without spending too fast, without — wait. 

He leans in and bites d'Artagnan's gills *hard* — 

d'Artagnan clenches and wails *again* — 

"Don't *fight* me, little brother." 

"Nuh — have to — have —" 

"Don't fight *anything*. You're mine. You're — give it *up*." 

d'Artagnan *sobs* — 

"That's right. That's just right. You — you're my little brother," Porthos says, biting again, again — 

"Y-yours —" 

"*Mine*," Porthos says, growling right into those gills — 

d'Artagnan flexes open *wide* — 

He's swollen and rippling and so — 

So fucking *perfect* — 

"That's *right*, little brother, little — oh, love, you make me need you so *badly*," Porthos says, and *grinds* in — 

d'Artagnan yelps like a seal — 

Strains and writhes — 

*Moans* — 

"Oh, good lad, good — *mm*, that's right, give it up, give it all up for me —" 

"Yours —" 

"Open wide and *take* it." 

"*Yours*!" 

"I'll fuck you just as hard as you like, little brother..." 

d'Artagnan groans and clenches and flexes right open again, tossing his *head* — "Please — please spread me wider!" 

Porthos growls again and does just that, reaching back to *splay* d'Artagnan's right leg *wide* — 

And d'Artagnan moans for him again, long and low and *helpless*-sounding — 

And his mind is quieter, not calm so much as hungrily *focused* — 

And Porthos can give them both what they need. 

Porthos can *suck* those gills and shove in and *in* — 

Work that pleasure-button even more, grind in from the side and do d'Artagnan *that* way, see how he *likes* it — 

Make him *sob* again, make him shake, make his mind fill up with bright colours and need and pleasure shot through with *excited* pain — 

Porthos sucks harder, bites — 

Bites *rough* — 

d'Artagnan *screams* — 

Porthos pulls back enough that they can meet each other's *eyes* while he reams his perfect little brother — "This — this — should never be *punishment*." 

And there's shock in those wide eyes for a long moment, shock and guilt and hunger and so many *questions* — and there's only *one* way to answer them. 

"I promise I'll take care of you in *every* way, love," Porthos pants. "I promise. I promise I'll punish you until you're *weeping* for —" 

And d'Artagnan arches beneath him, fighting the manacles, fighting everything and *winning* because he's just that *needy* for it, for everything Porthos can *give* — 

He's so bloody *strong* — 

He's so *perfect* — 

"Don't *fight*," Porthos growls in the *command*-voice — 

And d'Artagnan goes loose, just that fast, slumping and dropping and *shouting* — 

"Good *boy* —" 

"*Porthos* — I —" And d'Artagnan sobs again and *spurts*, hot and wet, hot and slick, so *slick*, and Porthos drops down and *grinds* right into it, grinds them together, belly to cock as he fucks d'Artagnan *harder* — 

Faster and *harder* — 

His eyes roll back in his head — 

His gills flex and tremble — 

And Porthos has to kiss him, has to shove one hand into that hair, hold his head still, kiss him hard, fuck his mouth in the same rhythm he's using in his arse, drive *himself* mad — 

Just — 

In and in and *in*, and d'Artagnan's so loose for him now, so slack, so *loose* except where he's swollen, so plush and just a little raw from the rough *treatment* — 

But he can take it. 

He can take *everything*. He can take everything Porthos can give and come back for more just that fast, just that ready, just that bloody — 

Perfect — 

And he's moaning into Porthos's mouth, obviously incapable of kissing back, incapable of doing anything right now but *taking* it — 

But that's a fantasy for a little brother, too. That's — 

Fuck, and he knows it — 

(I do...) 

Porthos kisses him harder and fucks him faster, *faster*, and he knows his strokes are short and rough, animal and *rutting* — 

He knows he's not making much of a *showing* for himself — 

He can't *stop* — 

(It's incredible... I've never... had...) 

D'you *like* it?

And suddenly Porthos is warm all over — not just hot. Suddenly he's full, rocked, *pounded* by a fuck that's keeping him wide-open and ready for more, ready for anything, ready for more of this *pleasure* — 

His whole body is alive for it — 

He wants that cock everywhere on him, *in* him — 

His whole body is *alive* — 

There's no part of him that's *dead*, because Porthos is inside him, warming him and filling him and riding him — 

Possessing him — 

He has a *brother*!

And there's a pull — 

A gasping-stretching — 

He can't — 

He can't tell where he begins and where he *ends* — and then he can, he *can*, and he's *slick* with sweat, and d'Artagnan is arching up to lick it off his face — 

d'Artagnan is smiling and *laughing* — 

Gasping and moaning and *laughing* — 

Porthos's cock *spasms* — 

d'Artagnan hisses and burbles and *looks* at him hard and hungry and so *sweet* — "I love you," he says, and clenches *hard* — 

Porthos *yells* — 

*Slams* in — 

d'Artagnan *throws* his head back — 

His gills flex open — 

His arse gets *tighter* — and Porthos growls a roar and spends, cock jerking in the rippling *vise* of d'Artagnan's arse — 

"*Oh* — oh — it's so *hot* inside me!" 

Porthos jerks again and spurts *more*, hot everywhere, aching with it, losing everything and — 

"Please, *please* give me all of it!" 

"Every — every last *drop*," Porthos says, rutting and rutting and biting d'Artagnan's lips — 

He's losing everything and he's so *alive* with it, needy for it, spending more and —

Freeing d'Artagnan because he needs to, *has* to, has to get *held* — and d'Artagnan wraps his arms and legs around Porthos and holds on *tight*. 

Porthos shivers and kisses him everywhere he can reach from within his grip — which is mostly his right gills — and holds on right back. 

He just — 

He needs this. 

He needs to hold his *brother* — 

"Yes, yes, please —" 

Porthos sucks soft kisses to those gills —

Rolls them gently onto their sides — 

The couch cracks a little more under them and dips ominously to the left. 

"Um." d'Artagnan smiles ruefully at him. "I don't *think* it will actually fall apart while we're on it..." 

"You don't *think*...?" 

"We could... move to a different couch?" 

"But that would involve me pulling out of my little brother's arse," Porthos says, and grins. 

d'Artagnan flushes, cock twitching *impressively*. 

Porthos *blinks*. 

"It um. I know what you're thinking. And — it had been... kind of a while since I'd... spent. Or spent on a regular basis. I couldn't think about happy things without... other things coming up." 

"Oh, love..." Porthos leans in and nuzzles d'Artagnan's nose and mouth. 

d'Artagnan nuzzles him back. "You took me away from that. You took me away from everything." 

"It.... it *is* better to talk about your grief —" 

"I know," d'Artagnan says. "I *did* grow up with warriors, Porthos," he says, and gives Porthos something of a *look*. 

"All right, all right, but in my experience, all kinds of warriors need to learn that lesson the hard way once or twice." 

"Like you?" 

"Like me, yeah —" 

"I won't let you hold anything back," d'Artagnan says, hard and sure as he cups Porthos's face. "Just like you won't let *me* hold anything back. We're *brothers*." 

And somehow...

Well, Porthos is absolutely positive that, even if d'Artagnan couldn't look into Porthos's mind and let Porthos look into his, he'd still be just as sure about all of this. 

Just as *determined*. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" And d'Artagnan sounds genuinely curious. "*You* don't need to be constantly searched for your honesty — it's all right there on the surface. I've needed my powers to help me with the nuances of your language, Porthos — not with *you*. And, besides, *you're* —" 

"I'm already sure about you?"

"*Yes*." 

"I absolutely am, love, but see — I've had all my life to get used to me making decisions really *quickly* —" 

"*Good* decisions —" 

Porthos kisses d'Artagnan again, soft and sweet. 

"Mm —" 

And then he pulls back. "I still need time to get used to *you* making those kinds of decisions." 

d'Artagnan frowns. "To... trust me?" 

"I think you already know that I trust you with my life *and* my heart, little brother," Porthos says, and *looks* at d'Artagnan — 

d'Artagnan flushes and *grins* — 

"That's *right*," Porthos says, and kisses d'Artagnan again. "Give me time to learn how to trust you with your own heart —" 

"I —" 

"Because it's the prerogative of big brothers to worry about things like that." 

"Just worry? Not... hold us back?" 

Porthos leans in and nuzzles a little more. His cock isn't softening so much as it's waiting with a pretty good impression of patience. 

It's the best he's going to get right now, with *this* boy. 

This beautiful — 

"I'm yours," d'Artagnan says, and holds him tighter with his thighs. 

"I'm *yours*," Porthos says, and licks that pretty mouth. "And I'll give you everything. No holding back." 

d'Artagnan burbles something that sounds *heartfelt* and kisses him deeply, wetly, *needily* — 

They're not leaving the couch, yet.


	4. Meet your new recruit, gentlemen.

Porthos is reasonably sure that that last round on the couch — and in the couch's wreckage — had nearly done for d'Artagnan's healing, in terms of its ability to keep Porthos in good trim for a while, *but* — 

Porthos *is* in good trim — 

And loaded down a bit with weapons, treasure, and the few items of human clothing that d'Artagnan had scavenged that fit him — 

d'Artagnan is loaded down with *him* — 

It's all a bit worrying, to be honest — 

(Why so?) 

Well... And Porthos looks around at the deep blue beauty surrounding them. 

(You're worried about being attacked?) 

You did kill seventeen people, love. 

(It will take some time for them to regroup,) d'Artagnan says. (*They* don't know that I don't have any allies but you.) 

Porthos laughs hard inside himself — *Thank* you — 

d'Artagnan grins at him. (You don't know how to fight underwater, yet.) 

*Still* — 

(Also, *they* don't know that I'll be traveling away from the storm-paths.) 

Oh — but you're *stronger* there — 

(And your home is *there*. At least, that's where your companions landed.) 

Porthos laughs more. *Our* home. And I think they were just looking for dry land to set their wobbly knees down on, love.

(Oh...) 

Not to worry. We can turn a little of this bounty into a fine, big horse for us to ride in the right direction. 

(A... horse? Ride?) 

Porthos blinks — 

And then fills his mind with the basics of horses, caring for horses, riding horses — 

Riding horses into war — 

(And they just let you *do* that?) 

They're really very agreeable animals — 

(You'd better treat them well!) 

So Porthos goes back over the care and feeding, and how to be a conscientious horseman and not an arsehole — 

(But I don't see why you don't feed them your meat and fish, if they're battle-animals you care for a great deal.) 

Porthos shows him horse *teeth* — 

(.......) 

Porthos snickers hard, bubbles floating everywhere — 

(Are there...) 

Yeah, love? 

(Are there a *lot* of animals like... I mean, there are some animals who only eat plants down here.) 

Oh, 'course. 

(But.) 

Yeah? 

(Those are very disturbing teeth, Porthos.) 

Mine aren't so different — 

(Yours don't look like — like *doors*. And they're sharp in places, like they should be.) 

All right, then. I have proper teeth. 

(Do you think *my* teeth are disturbing?) 

You do look a bit like you're going to tear me apart when you're smiling — 

(Oh — oh, *no* —) 

But I'm getting quite the fixation on that, so keep it up.

d'Artagnan is silent for a moment — (You meant that.) 

That I did. 

(You like being *disturbed*?)

I like *you*. I like you a *lot*. In fact, I love you — 

(Would you ever want *me* to... bite you?)

Porthos grunts, well-used cock jerking — 

(Oh, *Porthos*...)

Let's get something clear, love: The only things I don't want with you are the things which hurt us in bad ways. All right? 

d'Artagnan squirms and wriggles, jarring all the packages they're carrying — 

Careful, now — 

(You're so *good*! I — I want —) And d'Artagnan puts on a burst of speed that's frankly *phenomenal* — 

Porthos has to tuck his head in a little — 

(Oh — oh, are you all right? Should I slow down?) 

You want to get us there faster, right?

(*Yes*. I want you to show me everything right now, and I want to meet all your companions and I want — but I can slow down. I *can*.)

*Don't*, Porthos says, and tucks his head into d'Artagnan's armpit a little. It makes the speed easier to take. I'll *tell* you if I'm too uncomfortable. 

(*Thank* you,) d'Artagnan says, and just — goes. 

After a little while, Porthos fills his mind with stories about meeting Aramis and Athos. About how he couldn't stop telling Aramis how beautiful he was, laughing their heads off the whole time even as they were talking about everything under the sun. About how Athos was quiet and conservative at first, but so obviously looking for *something* — and how Porthos had figured out pretty quickly, as these things go, that that something was a friend. About how they drink down the moon and make too much noise and fall into piles of themselves to sleep.

About how they take *every* mission together, and know how they all work the way they know how to breathe. 

About how Athos never makes love to anyone, and how Aramis has his nose up the skirts of every fine lady in Paris and half the street-whores -- and a fair number of women in between, too.

About how Aramis had taught him Latin and a fair amount of Spanish, and how Athos had taught him how to speak French like a gentleman, and even act like one sometimes. 

About how Treville had taught them *all* things, everything, so *much* — 

How to be *men* in this world — 

How to be strong and right and *true* — 

(You haven't used that name before!) 

Mm? Oh, he's our Captain. Our — war-leader. He's incredible. He's the one who *first* convinced me — *really* convinced me — that my dreams of being more than a gutter rat could be more than dreams. He's the one who... well. Pulled me up. 

He... 

Porthos licks his lips and smiles ruefully. He's the one we really fight for, truth be told. The French King is a bit of a ponce under all his silk and jewels, but Treville... Treville is a man worth dying for a thousand times over. 

d'Artagnan shivers. (Some of my mother's old warriors talk about her like that.) 

She must've been incredible. 

(I remember... her hard hands. And how she always touched me with them really softly, even when she was correcting my form with the spear.) 

And that's really *wonderful* — wait. 

(Mm?) 

Weren't you *four* when she died?

(Didn't you start learning weapons when you were young?) 

And there's the memory of his mother, closing his fist around the hilt of a knife sized for *his* hand — and. 

And Porthos has been living soft for too long. 

Just — too long. I take that question back, love. 

(You... you lost your mother when you were young, too.) 

Yeah, I — I was five. It was... bad. I was homeless after that. Living like a rat. 

(Oh, *no* —) 

But she'd taught me how to survive, Porthos says, and smiles hard. She was a warrior, too. In her way. In a lot of ways, really. 

d'Artagnan manages to find a way to squeeze him tight despite all the packages. 

Porthos takes it and squeezes back and is — so grateful. 

So warm and grateful. 

He kisses d'Artagnan's hard, sleek chest — 

d'Artagnan shivers again — (We're almost there. I'm going to shift and glamour myself before we're out of the water.) 

Good plan. Have you decided what your glamour will look like?

(Yeah. I have.) 

Good lad.

d'Artagnan swims them for another ten minutes or so, and then the waters get noticeably *shallow*. They break apart — 

And d'Artagnan shifts — 

And then glamours himself into a human-looking young man with richly-tanned skin, deep brown eyes, and a bit of hair on his chest and belly. It *looks* like he's wearing leather trousers so long as Porthos doesn't use his magic too much, and — 

(You're bloody *gorgeous*.) 

d'Artagnan beams — his teeth are still a little too sharp, but, well, maybe no one will look too closely. He grips Porthos again and swims them to shore, where they do their horrible retching and coughing and not-drowning until they're both breathing air again.

He takes half the packages away from him — Porthos gave him a look when he tried to take more — and dries Porthos's clothes just enough that they won't be horribly uncomfortable to walk in. 

The boots he'd scavenged from a shipwreck are a little too big on Porthos's feet, but there were rags for that. 

And — they can walk. 

There'll *be* a town not too — 

"Porthos," d'Artagnan says, and grips his arm. "There are men who speak like warriors to the west." And he nods in that direction. 

"A camp, do you think?" 

"I think so, yes, if I understand the word in your mind. I heard the name 'Furet' called very loudly —" 

"Oh — *shit*. That's because he's deaf! They're still here! *My* people — *let's go* —" Porthos says, grinning and taking off at a jog — 

d'Artagnan follows at a graceful, easy, ground-eating lope that gives Porthos all kinds of happy thoughts about how he'll fight on land — 

(I'll make you proud.) 

"Oh, little brother, you'll do that by *breathing*," Porthos says, and runs *faster* — 

d'Artagnan keeps his pace — 

"Wait, are you tired?" 

"Hungry, mostly." 

"We'll feed you, and — oh, fuck, fuck, I'm so *excited* for you to *meet* everyone, but you can't let me run you over, all right?" And Porthos makes himself stop and *look* at d'Artagnan. 

d'Artagnan searches him. "I... have to let you take care of your little brother." 

Porthos grins wide, cups d'Artagnan's tanned face, and kisses him hard. "That's just right, little brother. That's *just* right. Now what do you need right now." 

"Um. Everything." 

Porthos laughs *hard*. "Absolutely. Which first?" 

"For that man not to be pointing a sword at us," d'Artagnan says, and points — 

Porthos whirls, pulling his borrowed rapier — but. "*Captain*?" 

"Porthos. Words cannot express how happy I am to see you alive and well. Now step *away* from that creature so you can stay that way," Treville says, moving closer cautiously — 

*Belligerently* — 

His nostrils are flaring — 

His eyes are *glowing* — 

And, all right, this is maybe where Porthos has a chat with himself about what he's always suspected about Treville and what he could and couldn't do, and just how good his 'instincts' are, but — 

Now isn't the time. 

"*Sir*. Stand *down*. d'Artagnan here isn't human, it's true, but he doesn't mean us any harm. He's the one who *saved* me. And *healed* me." 

Treville narrows his eyes — and doesn't lower his sword one *bit*. "Are you aware that that isn't his true form, son."

"*I* suggested he glamour himself, sir. He wanted to come with me. *I* wanted him to come with me. He... he's our new recruit," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. 

Treville's jaw drops — just for a moment.

(He really does think of you as his son.) 

Wait, what? 

(Do you think of him as your father?) 

What — *what* — 

(I can't tell. You have a lot of conflicting feelings —) 

"Of bloody course I have conflicting feelings! He's my Captain and my father and he's also bloody *hot* and that was out loud." Porthos groans and beats his forehead with the heel of his hand for a little while. "Sorry about that, sir." 

Treville is coughing and *blushing* — but at least his sword is down. "That's what you want to talk to Porthos about right now... d'Artagnan, is it? His tender feelings about other men?" 

Well, his sword being down is relative. "Sir —" 

d'Artagnan lifts his chin. "I'm his brother *and* his war-brother! I have to *know* all of this!" 

Treville nods slowly. "And he's told you of his other brothers?" 

"Yes! I want to meet them and make them *proud* of me." 

Porthos cups the back of d'Artagnan's neck, careful of the sensitive gills he can't quite see along the sides of his throat. "You will, love. I promise you will." 

"Porthos —" 

"I have heard a name spoken again, and *again*," Aramis says, stepping out from beyond the trees with Athos at his back — "I have heard your name," he says, and closes the distance between him and Porthos, reaching up to cup Porthos's face with both hands — 

"Aramis —" 

"Porthos. *Porthos*, are you real? Are you hale? Are you well? You've come back to us?" And he's so pale, so — 

He obviously hasn't *slept* — 

Athos looks just as *wrecked* — 

Porthos growls and lets go of d'Artagnan to hug Aramis tight, to squeeze him hard, so *hard* — 

"Ah — ah, *fuck* —" And Aramis squeezes him back just that hard for a moment before they both move to reach for Athos — 

Before they *yank* him in — 

"It... would not have *worked* without you..." 

"No, no it would not —" 

"We *need* you —" 

"Do not *leave* us —" 

Porthos groans and squeezes them both *harder* for a moment, and his eyes are wet, and he can't — 

He can't even imagine what it would've been like to be one of the ones on shore, waiting and hoping and *knowing* there was nothing to hope for, knowing there *could* be nothing — 

Fuck — 

They have to — 

Porthos pulls back — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Wait, wait, Aramis, Athos, you have to see — you have to *meet* d'Artagnan, he *saved* me —" 

Aramis gasps and turns, moving to cup d'Artagnan's face immediately. "You saved him? You did this thing?" 

d'Artagnan blinks. "Yes —" 

Aramis kisses him on the mouth — 

"MM —" 

And both cheeks — 

"What — I — don't —" 

"I do not *know* you, young man, but you must know this and hold it in your *soul*: I — *we* — are forever in your *debt*." 

Athos nods once, silent and *intent*. 

d'Artagnan flushes, and he's flustered enough that it has a purple tinge to it. 

Aramis frowns. "d'Artagnan? Are you well? Your colour is —" 

"I — I —" And then d'Artagnan turns to Porthos. "There's no one else coming, brother. May I... be honest?" 

Porthos's heart *aches* with pride — "Do it, little brother. Do it all the bloody time when we're free to." 

d'Artagnan beams — and drops his glamour, showing himself naked and sharp-toothed and scaled blue-green-golden. Beautiful. 

*Aramis's* jaw drops — 

"Well," Athos says. "That was unexpected." 

Treville sighs long-sufferingly. "Meet your new recruit, men. You'll be *personally* responsible for the lion's share of his training, since — how much combat *have* you done on land, son?" 

"We all train for emergencies — is sir the proper term?"

Treville smiles gently. "It is." 

d'Artagnan nods sharply. "Sir. We all train on small islands for emergencies. I've done so more than most, because of my position in Maren society. I still require much more." 

Treville narrows his eyes in that *acquisitive* smile that says he's making plans. "Good that you know it. You move like a polearm-man more than a swordsman. We're going to be changing that *dramatically* with the help of your new companions." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"I presume you'll be staying with Porthos?" 

d'Artagnan beams again. "He said it will be *our* home, sir." 

Aramis blinks — 

Athos raises an eyebrow — 

Treville nods thoughtfully, which Porthos knows means that he's really just giving them all time to take all of that *in*, including everyone else's reactions. And then he says: "What sort of accommodations do you require? Do you need to...submerge from time to time?" 

"No, sir, but I'll require saltwater to drink in large quantities at least every several days." 

"You heard him, boys. Get those skins filled and *keep* them filled. If you need help with keeping that task completed, you *will* let me know," Treville says, and *looks* at them. 

"Yes, sir — " 

"Sir —" 

"Yes, sir — 

"As you say, sir —" 

Treville grunts and nods. "Talk amongst yourselves for a little while. Smooth out a few wrinkles. We're riding back to Paris tomorrow at dawn," Treville says, and tips his hat to them.

And — 

He's clearly *about* to leave — 

But then he gives Porthos a *look* from under the brim of his hat, gleaming and blue, and it says... a lot of things. And *then* he leaves.

(He wants to talk to you.) 

Yeah, I think you're — 

(He wants to make love with you, but he also wants to talk to you.) 

Wait wait — 

(Your other brothers are wondering why we're just staring at each other like this.) 

Porthos turns to Athos and Aramis — "It's because d'Artagnan has magic beyond the telling of it, including the ability to communicate silently — in our heads, I mean." 

Athos hums. "That's going to be extremely tactically useful." 

"And *maddening*," Aramis says. "What were you *saying*?" 

"I —" 

"Your Captain —" 

"He's your Captain, too, now, little brother —" 

"Oh — *oh*," d'Artagnan says, and beams. And then turns back to Aramis. "*Our* Captain has many conflicting feelings about Porthos. And about you and Athos, too, actually." 

Aramis winces. "We make life difficult for him... often." 

*Athos* winces. "Yes. Yes, we —" 

"No, oh — not feelings like that," d'Artagnan says, and gestures like the wind blowing something away. "He just thinks of you as his sons while also sometimes wanting to have you as his brothers and lovers." 

Athos stares into the middle distance. 

Aramis gurgles — 

"Oh, do you speak Maren?" 

"Wh-what?" 

"Do you —" 

Porthos grips the back of d'Artagnan's neck again. "I think that was just the sound of you breaking something important in Aramis's mind, love." 

"But — why? It's natural for a commander of warriors to have strong feelings for their charges." 

Aramis blinks rapidly. "Do commanders act on these feelings in your culture, friend d'Artagnan?" 

"All the time! If the feelings are returned, and everyone is comfortable, of course. Are you saying it's not done here? For some reason? Is this something else to do with your Church?" 

Well... 

Athos coughs and blinks and recovers first — "Being as how all our warriors — and commanders of warriors — are male, and males are prohibited from making love with one another... you could say so." 

d'Artagnan bares his sharp teeth. "Do you not have enough warriors to tear down your Church? I will help raise an army!" 

Athos and Aramis and Porthos share a look, smiling and rueful and pleased and happy and *knowing*: d'Artagnan is going to run them *ragged*, and they're going to love every bloody second of it. 

And then Aramis clears his throat. 

"Hm? What is it, Aramis?" 

"If I may suggest... perhaps you would like to eat *first*?" 

d'Artagnan's stomach growls like a sodding wolverine. 

"Food first," Porthos says, and claps d'Artagnan's shoulder. 

"*Much* food," Aramis says. 

"And then, perhaps... sleep," Athos says, and smiles wryly as he leads them back to camp. 

"Oh, yeah, brother? Got a tent big enough for all of us?" 

"Absolutely not," Athos says. "I have a tent *small* enough for all of us." 

Porthos laughs hard — 

Aramis wraps an arm around Porthos's waist and grins — 

And d'Artagnan hisses out something long and fervent. 

"Was that your language, d'Artagnan?" And Athos looks back over his shoulder curiously. 

"Yes, Athos. It was a prayer," d'Artagnan says, glamouring himself again and flushing — pink. 

"Ah, so you *are* a religious man," Aramis says, and grins *wolfishly*. 

"Not really," d'Artagnan says, and looks up at Porthos. "But sometimes you need something... extra." 

Porthos leans in and kisses d'Artagnan softly on the mouth, heart pounding with just — everything. 

Everything. 

end.


End file.
